


All My Tomorrows

by mydogwatson



Series: WHILE THE MUSIC LASTS [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative First Meeting, BAMF John Watson, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John meet cute.  Well, they would, wouldn't they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Tomorrows

**Author's Note:**

> I said I like alternative first meetings. This is the third and last in this series.

Today I may not have a thing at all  
except for just a dream or two.  
But I’ve got lots of plans for   
tomorrow and all my tomorrows  
belong to you.  
-Frank Sinatra

 

John Watson had never turned his back on a challenge. After all, he’d been a surgeon and a soldier, both of which were professions that tended to be populated by risk takers. Not to mention that it seemed to be in his genes [thanks, Dad] to like games of chance and what else was life but an enormous roulette wheel?

But this. This was absolutely ridiculous.

Of course, there was more to it and that ‘more’ was a very sad story.

Danny Benn was a great guy. A medic who knew his job and did it with compassion. Not to mention that he was tall, blond, good-looking. Very shy, though, for reasons that John never understood. Because of that shyness, he had a hard time meeting women, despite his drop-dead good looks. It was a joke when the rest of them signed Danny up to attend a Singles Evening at this exclusive London club. They all chipped in to pay the 500-pound fee. Even John, already invalided out, had joined the scheme.

Danny had a leave scheduled and would be in London for the event. John’s mission was to deliver him to the club.

Sadly IEDs don’t respect things like plans.

John was still not sure why he was standing here now

Possibly part of the reason was simple boredom. Life since his return from Afghanistan had been dull. Empty. Hateful. Most often his only company was the make-believe pain [which still hurt like hell, if anybody cared] in his leg. Or the very real pain in his shoulder. Many weeks, the only place he went [other than the pub, of course] was to see his mandated and useless therapist.

Of course, the larger part of the reason he was here was because he was the only one of the group now in London. His mates called him from Afghanistan and told him he had to do it for Danny. Go to the social evening, meet some nice girls, maybe even get a leg over in Danny’s honour. [Would that be his useless leg with the pretend injury?]

He promised to truthfully email them every [hopefully salacious] detail of what happened.

Which was, so far, absolutely nothing.

Not that there wasn’t a great deal going on in the large room. Mostly a lot of meeting and greeting. Every person in the room had paid that same five hundred pounds to mingle with other singles, undoubtedly looking to have some flirty conversation, to enjoy the open bar, and perhaps even to find true love. Although that last seemed unlikely, it was entirely possible that there would be some shagging involved once the party ended.

For John, it was mildly interesting to watch the social interaction. The first thing he learned, of course, was that very few [read: none] of the chic women attending seemed at all interested in making the acquaintance of a crippled ex-soldier, ex-surgeon, current nobody, especially one dressed in his best jeans and a comfy jumper. It occurred, belatedly, that perhaps he should have donned his one and only suit. Obviously he had not given the whole exclusive club, five hundred pound entrance fee thing enough thought. Too late now, though.

So John tried to make the best of things, standing in a corner and watching all the action, trying at least to collect some colourful details so that the email to his mates would be fun to read, even without the titillation they were hoping for.

After a time, his gaze settled upon another solitary figure in the opposite corner. The man wasn’t speaking to anyone either; like John, he was just watching the crowd. Of course, he was doing his watching sitting at a table. John would never be able to really explain why he gripped his cane more tightly and made his way through the crowd to where the man was sitting. Maybe he was just hoping for an interesting anecdote. Or a chair.

He reached the table and just stood there for a moment. Close up, it was a real mystery as to why this guy wasn’t absolutely surrounded by eager women. With a wild mane of dark curls, flawless pale skin, and an obviously designer black suit, complemented by a deep purple silk shirt, he was definitely the most attractive thing on offer. And John did not believe he was comparing only to the other men in the room. That might have been weird, but facts were facts and John was a man of the world. Or at least of three continents, he thought with a private smirk.

Abruptly, an unearthly grey-green gaze flickered over him. “Iraq or Afghanistan?” a deep voice rumbled.

“What?”

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” Now the voice sounded annoyed at having to repeat itself.

“Oh, Afghanistan, but how---?”

Instead of answering, the man waved a lazy hand towards the other chair. “You might as well sit. Even if the pain in your leg is psychosomatic, it still hurts.”

John stared for a moment and then dropped into the chair. “I don’t understand how you can know all of that.”

“I don’t know. I observe and I deduce. Boringly simple in most cases.”

“Huh. Pretty brilliant, actually.”

The man smirked. “Not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say, then?”

“Piss off. Or worse.”

For a moment, they smiled at one another.

“You know,” John said, “it’s going to be very difficult to meet anyone sitting over here in the corner.”

A brow quirked. “I met you.”

“I was talking about the lovely ladies.”

“Ladies? Not really my area.” As they talked, his clever eyes were studying the crowd.

“Oh,” John said, wondering why he found that rather interesting. “Then why are you here?”  
He shrugged.

“By the way, I’m John Watson.”

That earned him a glance. “You don’t introduce yourself as Dr. Watson.”

John just shook his head. “More deductions. Brilliant.”

The glance lingered. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

They shook hands.

Sherlock was watching the crowd again. “Of course, I might say the same about you. Coming over here to sit with me doesn’t help your chances of ‘getting lucky’ as the vernacular has it.”

He shrugged. “Obviously no one is really interested.”

“That is their loss, I think.”

“Thanks, but truth be told I’m not terribly interested either. I’m actually here, well, because some friends…it’s complicated. But why are you here?”

“I’m on a case.”

“You’re a policeman?” John didn’t try to hide his surprise, although he was already aware it would have been futile to try.

Brief horror crossed the unique features of the other man’s face. “God, no, I’m a consulting detective.”

“Never heard of one of those.”

“Naturally, as I am the only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“So what is it you do, exactly?”

Sherlock was obviously pleased to be asked. “When the police are out of their depth, which is more often than you’d like to think, they consult me.”

“I see,” John said, although he didn’t really. “What’s the case here? Unless you can’t talk about it?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. “You miss the excitement, don’t you? Terrible as the war was, it made you feel more alive than you ever had before. Or since.”  
John swallowed.

Before he could speak again, Sherlock seemed to spot whomever it was he’d been searching for in the crowd. He stood and grabbed a long coat from the back of his chair. “I have to go, John,” he muttered.

Of course he did. A man like Sherlock Holmes had much more important, interesting things to do than carry on a conversation with someone like John Watson. “Well, nice talking to you,” he said, feeling slight twinge in his gut. “Good luck on the case.”

“Luck has nothing---“ Sherlock began sharply, then he broke off and just stared at him. “Thank you,” he said. Then, in an instant, he was gone.

John didn’t linger long either. What was the point? He just finished his drink and then limped from the club. It was a five-block walk to the Tube, but he was in no hurry. As he walked, he began to plan the email he would send to his friends. There would have to be some embellishment, of course, to make it interesting, but somehow he already knew that the account would contain no mention of Sherlock Holmes.

Had there been any traffic noise, he might not have heard the sounds of a fight going on in the alley. But he did hear something and, instinctively, he turned towards the noise. He liked a flutter now and then.

One man was on the ground, being beaten and kicked by two others. Instantly, he recognized the downed man as Sherlock and his adrenalin kicked up a notch. “Oi!” he shouted. “Leave off!”

One of the men, whom he now saw was holding a knife, turned to glare at him. It was a rather a long knife, as it happened.

John was vaguely aware that he was bouncing on his toes.

“Not your business,” the thug said. “Walk away.”

“You’re beating on a friend of mine. That makes it my business.”

John had never walked away from a righteous fight in his life and a sudden gasp of pain from Sherlock steeled his resolve even more. He took two steps closer and then swung the cane at the hand holding the knife. The deadly blade flew into the darkness, but in return, the man grabbed the cane and tossed it in the same direction. “Cripple without his stick,” the man said with a sneer. “Pretty useless, aren’t you?”

With a grunt, John charged at him. While the man definitely had some basic street fighting skills, John had learned his moves during some extremely specialized and top-secret training in the military. Within moments, the creep was lying in a heap on the ground, whimpering in agony. John smirked down at him. “Arsehole without his knife. Pretty useless, aren’t you?”

His partner in crime had stopped kicking Sherlock to watch. John looked at him. “Your turn next?”

“Fuck off,” the coward said, before turning and disappearing into the night.

John immediately went to kneel beside Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled over to his hands and knees, trying to get up. “I suggest,” he gasped out, “that we depart the scene as quickly as possible. I know that he has confederates nearby.”

“Shouldn’t we call the police?”

“Later. I really think we should go.”

“All right, all right,” John mumbled. He wrapped both arms around Sherlock and hauled him to his feet. “Lean on me.”

Sherlock did. He took a breath. “You said I was your friend.” The words sounded more pleased at that declaration than the situation really merited.

“Yeah, well, it was the excitement of the moment. Can you put one foot after the other, please.”

Very slowly, they managed the two long blocks to the main road. Then, with barely a wave of one arm, Sherlock actually got a cab to stop, despite the fact that John was sure they looked rather unsavory. He got Sherlock settled inside and then crawled in after him.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock managed to say before he more or less collapsed against John.

John hoped Mr. Consulting Detective had the money to pay for such a lengthy trip, as he sure as hell didn’t. “Shouldn’t we go to Casualty? You might have serious injuries.”

“You’re a doctor. You can take care of me.”

That was the end of the conversation.

Somehow he managed to get Sherlock inside and up the seventeen steps to his flat. Once there, Sherlock first dropped his coat onto the floor and then himself onto the sofa. He grimaced. “Thank you, John,” he said.

John shrugged. He stepped closer and began to run his hands along Sherlock’s torso, checking for broken bones. “Amazingly you seem to have come through relatively unscathed. Going to have some rather startling bruises, though.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock looked at him. “Although a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss if you don’t mind. Have one yourself, as well.”

“Very generous,” John muttered. Then he went into the dreadfully cluttered kitchen, which looked more like a lab than a place where meals were prepared. Strangely, he felt quite at home and managed to produce two cups of tea with little difficulty. “There’s no milk,” he called out.

“There never is,” Sherlock said, sounding perfectly indignant at the situation. As if the universe should have arranged things much better on his behalf.

He did find some HobNobs just past their expiration date and brought those along to the sitting room. Sherlock shifted on the sofa to make room for him.

“Good tea,” Sherlock said after a moment.

“It’s a talent.”

“A rare one, in my experience.”

John nibbled an only slightly stale HobNob.

Sherlock eyed him. “Are you aware that you left your cane in the alley?”

He had not really been aware, but only shrugged in response. “Well, as you pointed out, it is a psychosomatic limp.”

Sherlock smiled. He hesitated, chewing his lower lip. “Rents are ridiculous in this part of town, you know. I could use a flatmate to share the expense. Unless you are inexplicably attached to the dreadful room you obviously reside in now.”

John thought of the terrible and tidy rented room where he stared at the ceiling in absolute silence every night. Then he looked around this room, which was as cluttered as the kitchen. “It’s possible you already have a flatmate and just misplaced him in the mess,” he commented. “Unless, of course, that’s his skull on the mantle.”

Sherlock frowned. “Well, obviously, I could tidy up. A bit.”

“I’ll think about it,” was all John said, although he already knew what his decision would be. “I expect you probably only want me here to make the tea.”

“Good,” Sherlock said. Of course, he undoubtedly already knew what John would decide as well. “You might buy milk occasionally, as well, so it’s a win-win.”

“So,” John said. “That case tonight? Can you tell me about it?”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and then began to talk.

Apparently it all had something to do with smuggling and government secrets and possibly a cross-dressing Albanian billionaire, but John didn’t pay that much attention to the details. He just listened as Sherlock talked and they drank the tea. He even pushed a biscuit into the too-thin man’s hand and it was eaten absently as the story rolled on.

John Watson was a man who liked a challenge. Sometimes you took a flutter and it paid off. And sometimes you put everything on one number and it changed your life.

He leaned back against the leather cushion and listened to Sherlock Holmes.

fini


End file.
